He Doesn't Like to Write

Dallin has never liked writing, but 10 years of school have helped him learn how to deal with it- make it random and humorous, and he's good. His assignment was to write a fable. Let me know what you think of his writing:

Plutarch Krisstoffersson was like any other 13 year old male American citizen, living in the 21^st century. Every day, he metal detected his back yard, practiced his calligraphy, and walked his 5 pigeons. His family went to the dentist regularly, his father was a Democrat, and his mother’s side of the family had a history of heart disease. He had two younger brothers, named Renaldo, and Broderick, who were 7-year-old twins. He lived in a southern Oregon town called Grants Pass.

It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents — except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets, and Plutarch stared out his window staring at the rain. He had being doing this for a couple hours, but he would rather be doing so than writing his English paper. His English teacher had assigned a fable of all things! Who reads fables anyway?! Plutarch sighed at his poor luck, and followed a drop of water down the window as it engulfed several others. He thought of how his grades were in English, (a B-) and thought he could probably spare a couple points. “I’ll do it in the morning.” he thought, and fell asleep.

He woke up and stared blankly at his alarm clock for several seconds until the significance of the time registered. “2:30” flashed across the screen. He the realized what had happened. He checked his watch, which he found metal detecting his backyard. It read 8:00! School started in 10 minutes! He realized the storm had caused the electricity to go out, and was almost late for school. Thankfully the school was only a 20 minute walk, or a 10 minute jog. But, if he sprinted at an average speed of 10.5 miles per hour, he could make it in 4.5 minutes! He rushed out the door almost forgetting lunch, which as he ran back, he remembered he didn’t have because his parents and brothers were on a vacation to Somalia for several months to visit his uncle in law’s second cousins neighbor.

He barely made it into class when the bell rang; sparking the thought he had had last night, when some thunder had sounded at exactly the same note as the bell, a slightly flat A sharp. He had forgotten to do his fable that he had thought was so unimportant! All his hopes of living a good life! Gone! All his hopes of ever passing high school went out the window in a second. His father had told him that if he didn’t pass English with a B or A, that he would disown him. Stricken, Plutarch stared dumbly at the wall and the world slowly faded to blackness.

When he awoke, he stumbled blindly out of the school, screaming, and ran until he made it to Chicago. He lived in the streets, conning people, and metal detecting the countryside. He never had enough to eat, and as he listened to the moans of his aching stomach, he thought of his fable, and began to write. He wrote of his experiences, and of all his sorrows and all of his misfortunes. He wrote of all the happiness he had left behind. He wrote his life’s story. Thanks to his middle school English teachers, it was a masterpiece, unrivaled by any other! It was also written in a beautiful, but unfortunately nearly indecipherable calligraphy which he had practiced for years. Unfortunately, he died of a strange incurable brain disease and the manuscript was never published, because no one could read it. Now all that is left of his legacy is this feeble fable, written for English class.

The moral of the story is: Don’t procrastinate doing your homework, or doom and destruction is imminent.